Hot Cocoa & Heartstrings (SnowDrop Inn #4)

Chapter One Home At The SnowDrop Inn

Kitty

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, the SnowDrop Inn was already busy.

The front door opened and closed in quick succession, letting in cold air and bursts of laughter from outside.

Boots were lined along the wall in uneven pairs, some clearly belonging to guests who had never mastered the concept of lining up their footwear.

A mug of now cold cocoa sat on the edge of the front desk, dangerously close to a stack of brochures, and I paused long enough to move it before gravity finished what carelessness had started.

December filled the inn with Christmas decorations and good cheer.

Every room held movement, conversation, and the quiet clatter of people settling in for the morning.

Scarves draped over chair backs, gloves were abandoned on banisters, and the sound of mugs touching saucers layered beneath conversation and laughter.

Snow fell steadily outside, visible through the windows in soft sheets that promised to complicate the rest of the day.

It might have been thought of as messy, but we liked to have the inn feel like a home away from home, and encouraged guests to treat it as such, dining en famille, and generally just treating each other with good humor and friendliness.

I stopped for a moment, the way I always did, and took in the sights and sounds of happy people.

Strangers who had become friends while vacationing in the town of Maple Ridge.

A couple near the fireplace debated whether whipped cream counted as traditional hot cocoa topping or just how historical marshmallows could be.

A child spun in circles near the window, boots squeaking faintly against the floor.

The smells of cinnamon and cocoa drifted in from the kitchen, warm and familiar.

Everything was in motion yet everything felt calm at the same time.

I moved forward automatically, gathering a few brochures that had shifted out of alignment and straightening them by size.

Small things mattered to me. They always had.

If someone needed an extra pair of hands, I was already there.

If something needed adjusting quietly, I noticed before it became a problem.

I liked that about myself, even if I rarely stopped to examine it too closely.

Jane’s voice carried from the breakfast room, calm and steady despite the fact that she was clearly managing more than her share. I followed the sound, stepping around a guest balancing a plate of pastries with optimism that outweighed experience.

Jane stood at the center of the room, directing traffic with practiced ease. She remembered who needed more coffee and who had already asked twice, who preferred oat milk and who wanted cream. She met my eyes and smiled, relief flickering there before she smoothed it away.

“Is everything all right out there?” she asked.

“Mostly,” I replied. “There is a spirited debate about whipping cream.”

Jane laughed under her breath. “I will leave that to them. Could you help Mrs. Caldwell find a seat?”

I nodded and scanned the room. Mrs. Caldwell waved apologetically from near the door, as if her presence alone might be an inconvenience.

I guided her to an open spot at one of the three long tables that now graced the room, pulled out her chair, and made sure she had a menu even though she had stayed with us often enough to know it by heart.

By the time I returned, Jane had refilled three cups of coffee and reassured a guest that yes, the town skating rink would be open later, weather permitting.

“Thank you,” she murmured as I passed. “I think we have almost everything under control.”

“Of course we do,” I said, and meant it. Jane had a way of making things feel manageable, even when they weren’t.

The door opened again, letting in another gust of cold, and Lydia came in with it.

“Have you seen the rink?” she called, tugging off her hat and shaking snow from her hair as she approached us. “It is perfect. Absolutely perfect. I swear it looks like something out of a movie.”

She crossed the room in long strides, already talking about ice conditions and snowfall. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her energy filling every corner she passed. Someone laughed as she went by, and Lydia smiled back without slowing.

She spotted me and grinned. “You are skating with us later, right?”

It was not a question. It never was with Lydia.

“Sure,” I said automatically, even though I hadn’t checked my schedule and knew I would probably be needed elsewhere. Lydia beamed, satisfied, and turned back to Jane, launching into a story about nearly colliding with her boyfriend on the path outside.

Jane listened with patient fondness, nodding at the right moments. I stepped aside to grab a chair left in the aisle and slid it back into place before grabbing some dirty breakfast dishes.

Lucy appeared in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand, her expression amused as she took in the scene. She caught my eye and lifted an eyebrow, a silent commentary on the volume level.

“Busy,” she observed.

“Always,” I replied.

She smiled, set her own mug to the side, and began to help.

She mentioned her boyfriend Dex was stopping by later, and how she was looking forward to it.

She wouldn’t be able to help with lunch, so could I stand in for her?

I nodded, genuinely happy for her, and tucked the information away without dwelling on it.

Meri sat curled in one of the armchairs near the window, a book propped against her knees, entirely unaffected by the noise around her.

She turned a page, oblivious to Lydia’s narration and Jane’s gentle instructions.

I suspected that if the inn emptied suddenly, Meri would simply shift position and keep reading.

I glanced at her and felt a familiar warmth. Meri had chosen her quiet and refused to apologize for it. She didn't seem concerned with who was paired off and who wasn’t. According to her, fictional people were far more interesting anyway.

Lydia leaned over the back of a chair to say something loudly about skating schedules. Meri held up a finger without looking up. Lydia laughed and moved on, unoffended.

I watched the scene and became aware of a pattern I had been tracing without meaning to. Jane, Lucy, and Lydia were all settled in their own ways, all moving forward. Meri, contentedly detached. And me, somewhere in the middle feeling a little left behind sometimes.

The thought passed quickly. There was too much to do, too much motion for lingering. I reached for another mug, another small task, bringing dishes back and forth from the kitchen, and let the morning carry me along.

I grabbed some clean mugs to restock the coffee cart and paused by the bulletin board near the staff entrance.

Notices layered the cork: winter events, snowplow schedules, and Lucy’s handwritten reminders of what to do about missing mittens.

Above it hung a framed photograph from before the main floor renovation, when the paint had dulled and the porch steps slanted slightly to the left.

I looked at it longer than I meant to. It still surprised me that we had done it.

That the SnowDrop Inn had gone from an empty building people passed with fond nostalgia to a place where strangers debated cocoa toppings before nine in the morning.

Lucy had come back first, uncertain but determined to help Mom and Dad with their purchase of the run down inn.

Jane had believed in it and fed everyone until they believed too.

Lydia had brought energy and noise. Meri had pretended indifference and read every scrap of local history she could find. And I had filled the spaces between.

Sometimes I wondered if that was enough to be known for.

I brought the clean mugs to the coffee station. Jane mouthed a thank you before rescuing a guest who had wandered too close to the kitchen with hopeful intent.

“Do you think the rink will be open all afternoon?” the guest asked.

“It should be,” Jane replied. “The ice holds well when the temperature stays steady. Kitty knows the schedule. Kitty?”

I looked up, momentarily surprised, then remembered I had answered that question repeatedly all week.

“Open at noon,” I said. “They clear it at three, then reopen at four. There is a family skate tonight.”

The guest brightened. “My daughter has been begging to skate under the lights.”

“There are string lights,” Lydia added from the doorway. “It looks magical. Also, I almost fell twice, but I didn’t. I want that noted.”

“Hale Lodge is doing beginner snowboarding lessons today,” Lydia continued. “Kitty, you should try it.”

“You will break something,” Meri said without lifting her eyes.

“I won’t,” I replied, mostly out of habit.

Lucy passed with a stack of linens. “She absolutely will. Remember the time she and Lydia tried skydiving?”

Lydia laughed. “Trying new things builds character.”

“It builds bruises,” Meri muttered.

I smiled despite myself. I didn't actually want to snowboard. I wasn’t particularly good at downhill skiing so snowboarding was probably just as terrifying, but I wasn’t about to let Kitty know that.

Jane clapped her hands lightly.

“Just a reminder,” she said, “the town is finalizing the winter festival schedule today. They want to host a talent show in the town square next week. Simple acts, nothing formal. I am going to the planning meeting this afternoon.”

“A talent show,” Lydia repeated, delighted. “Perfect.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Perfect for what?”

“For everything,” Lydia said. “Festive vibes, romance, drama, and public embarrassment.”

Jane blinked. “I was thinking about community spirit.”

“That too,” Lydia agreed.

Meri’s mouth twitched.

“They want cocoa stands and small prizes,” Jane continued. “If we help, it will bring more visitors. I mentioned we have sisters who are good at organizing.”

Her gaze landed on me. I could have declined. Instead, I nodded. “Of course.”

Lydia cheered. “Kitty is in charge of talent!”

“I am not,” I said, but she was already telling someone else.

Jane leaned closer. “Thank you. I know it is a lot.”

“It’s fine,” I said, and it was. Mostly. I liked being useful. I liked being needed. I just didn't love Lydia volunteering me without my permission.

I spent the next hour or so helping with cleaning up, washing dishes, and setting the dining room for lunch before Jane called my name.

“Could you run into town?” she asked. “We are out of the gift bags for the cocoa kits. And could you drop off Meri’s library book?”

“Of course.”

I pulled on my coat and boots. Cold air slipped in as the door opened, sharp and bracing.

Outside, snow settled on my lashes and melted. The path to town was packed down with footprints. I tucked my scarf higher and started walking, the inn warm behind me and the town ahead.